


What Wonders Does This Fourth Age Hold?

by alinguistinanotherlife



Series: What if? [2]
Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fourth Age, Time Travel, character tags will be added as they appear, writing this as proof that I am capable of humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 05:32:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alinguistinanotherlife/pseuds/alinguistinanotherlife
Summary: Just a quick fun thing that some friends encouraged and I decided to write as proof that I am capable of comedy(or at least lightheartedness). Denethor, circa 2981, finds himself through unknown means in the tenth year of the Fourth Age. Heavily dependent on the larger What If? AU that this is part of.





	What Wonders Does This Fourth Age Hold?

Faramir was having a good day. Perhaps he had been left with mountains of paperwork higher than Caradhras; but he was blissfully alone. Neither the Captain General nor the King were in the city. Eowyn had decided to take Elboron for a picnic, as the weather was pleasant. This left Faramir with the wonderful calm he needed to bring order to his office.  
Sitting back after finishing reviewing a report from Near Harad, he lit his pipe, intent on a leisure smoke. Such was a thing he seldom had time for these days. 

This was, however, rudely interrupted when upon he attempted to inhale and began choking instead. Not due to the quality of pipeweed--indeed, more to do with a sudden, overwhelming sense of doom. Had he not known better, Faramir would have sworn Denethor was near.

 

Denethor found himself very far indeed from where he needed to be. From his vantage point atop a rather sizeable tumble of boulders he could see Minas Ithil, but not Minas Tirith. In the shadow of the Ephel Dúath, he puzzled over how a brief sojourn through the fields of Pelennor landed him nearly before the gates of one of their most embattled cities. 

Making his way toward the city, he saw traffic upon the road of all sorts. Merchants, common folk, occasional troops--though fewer of the last than he thought he should see. It also seemed that a strange mode of dress had become fashionable since his last time in these parts. This much he put out of his mind--Minas Ithil was always a strange city, sitting on the very edge of Mordor. 

As the day wore on and morning turned to afternoon, hunger began to set in, as did thirst. Consoling himself with the idea of the hospitality of Lord Castamir, Denethor soldiered on. It was to his great relief when he turned a corner and beheld the gates of Minas Ithil.

The city seemed greatly changed. Buildings having seemingly moved about, the statues before the gates much newer than they ought be, and new construction yet ongoing.

I have read nothing of levies for this, Denethor wondered, passing through the gates and into the lower city. He well knew the general financial position of most of their forts and cities, and Minas Ithil did not have the independent reserves for this. While the noble house Castamir came from was well off, they did not have enough to fund public works like this. And likely wouldn’t, seeing as Castamir was the second son of a second son--and ill favoured at that.

Making his way through the city to the citadel, Denethor made note of more and more developments and changes that had very much not been communicated to Minas Tirith. He could not stop the deep frown which crept onto his face; while he did not wish to think ill of Lord Castamir, none of this boded well. Deception of this level was staggering, to say the least. 

 

When he asked to see the Lord of Minas Ithil he was informed that he was away; but that the Lady of the city would see him. Curious, I don’t recall Castamir marrying, he thought idly. Though I suppose I seldom pay as much attention as I ought to the more socially inclined communications. 

 

The sitting room he was shown to was well appointed, though he found some of the furnishings strange. Glancing around, he spotted plenty of Gondorian made furniture, but some of the ornements seemed to be of Dwarven make, and a few even had an elven look to them. Not uncomely, but very expensive. 

He rose from his settee when a woman entered the room a few minutes later. She had a stately bearing, and bright, intelligent eyes. 

“Though my husband is away at this time, I am sure I can help you. Please, sit,” she gestured, even as she took a seat herself. “Would you care for refreshments?” 

Denethor nodded appreciatively, “While I wish to hasten to Minas Tirith, food and drink would be welcomed, Lady--” he stopped, awkwardly, “I am afraid I do not know your name, my lady.” A breach of etiquette he was not pleased with himself about, certainly.

“Ioreth,” she said, before signaling for food and drink to be fetched. “Hm. And why would you be hastening to Minas Tirith? I gathered that there is a matter of some urgency--so much that even your name was not given.”

“I find the matter urgent, I am quite sure the Steward shall agree,” Denethor said, “One does not simply go for a leisure ride in Pelennor only to find oneself nearly at the gates of Minas Ithil. As for my name, I am Denethor.” Indeed, he was quite sure his father would want such occurrences looked into thoroughly. Some part of him hoped it was a terribly dangerous assignment that might be given to Thorongil. No man’s luck lasts forever. As for his name, perhaps he had not given it in his haste, but he assumed he would be recognized. 

Ioreth observed the man before her carefully. The way he said ‘steward’ leant the word more importance than it had had for many years. Of course there were still those more loyal to the office of the steward than to the king; but they dwindled every year. Helped along by Faramir himself, usually. As well as certain facts of lineage. Though the man’s name also said something about his family’s politics. Not a common name, per se. Looking more closely, she thought his clothing somewhat old fashioned, though of fine make and in good repair. By his features, she could assume he was of the nobility. Age was a little trickier; he could be anywhere from somewhere in his twenties to his forties, depending upon which house he hailed from. However, she found the name to be far more likely for a man in his forties rather than a lad in his twenties.

However, what he said was indeed worrisome. To go from Pelennor to Minas Ithil by unknown means was trouble one way or another. With Talion dealing with unrest among the orcs of Mordor, the King away to the north, and the Captain General dealing with Umbar--this matter did fall to the Steward to handle. Ioreth certainly wasn’t about to claim the issue for her own. Running Minas Ithil was quite enough. She could, however, do Faramir the courtesy of sending a message ahead.

“That is no small matter, you are quite right.”

As though summoned by the thought, Helinille flitted into the room, chirping happily. Still small yet, Helinille was possessed of an incredibly rich purple coloration seldom seen. Unlike many of her kin, this particular dragon was actually quite inclined to be helpful.

Denethor very nearly leapt backwards. To his credit, he did not. However, he did yelp, “What is that?”

Ioreth frowned, ignoring him for now, saying to Helinille, “Take a message to Isilme--In two days time I shall arrive at the citadel with a guest; matters of import need to be sorted, possible threat may need investigation.”  
Helinille nodded, chirped, and flitted back out of the room to head to Minas Tirith.  
Ioreth turned to her guest, “A dragon--I don’t see how you could have been in Minas Tirith and not seen one. ”

Denethor looked at her strangely, “I have never seen such within the White City, nor indeed in any lands near.” He stopped, searching his memory, before saying, “There are rumors from the north that the dwarves have such beasts, but that is naught but rumor and tall tales.”

Ioreth, detecting no deceit, got a sinking feeling. She knew that this man’s features were familiar, had known since she had walked into the room; but could not place him. She now had an inkling. “They have been quite common since the first group arrived in Gondor in 3019.”

“It is 2981, my lady you must be mistaken,” Denethor said, though he saw no lie in her eyes, and the year is not someone one misremembers easily. 

Ioreth closed her eyes briefly and nodded, “I am not, and all of this just got much more complicated. Denethor son of Ecthelion, correct?”

“Of course I--” Denethor all but sputtered.

Ioreth interrupted him before he could embarrass himself, “I dimly recalled you from my youth, but much has changed since then--it is the tenth year of the Fourth Age.”

“Impossible,” Denethor gasped, sitting heavily upon the settee.

“Had I not lived through such times as I have, I would agree,” Ioreth said. The door opened, and a young woman entered with a tray. “Ah, Morwen, thank you, just leave it there please.”

Morwen quickly complied and retreated from the room, leaving a tense silence in her wake.

Denethor poured some water in one of the goblets, but ended up staring at it more than drinking it. Turning everything over in his mind, everything he had observed fit far too well. All of the new construction, new modes of dress, not being recognized--if he were in the next age of course he would have faded from the memories of most; or else he was old enough to look rather different. “Lady Ioreth, you said something of the times you have seen; surely this is beyond anything else by it’s sheer strangeness?”

Ioreth smiled wryly, “I have seen the Black Gate fall, Minas Ithil fall and be won back, the Dead return to fight, one of the Nine betray the Dark Lord and become an ally of Gondor, and dragons become as common as house cats--I have seen strange times indeed.” She kept it general, not wishing to delve into details. This was messy enough. 

Before Denethor could even begin to process all of that, the door once more opened, this time with significantly more force. The newcomer was of average height for Gondorian nobility, and dressed as a ranger. Denethor guessed his age to be perhaps mid thirties, but he noticed something of the Northmen about his features and wondered if he were not younger.

Ioreth raised an unimpressed eyebrow at Dirhael, “Dirhael, what have I told you about knocking?”

Dirhael rolled his eyes, “That it’s polite and correct--but I’ve just had word, matters in Mordor will be keeping father longer than he thought.” His face twisted into a frown, “He’s requested more numbers, and my help specifically.”

Ioreth sighed, of course this time of all times Talion would find greater trouble than usual “He hasn’t found another Balrog has he? Only man I know of to have met two.”

Dirhael shook his head, “New warchief is a pretty fair tactician, and has a few necromancers.”

“Go then, and make haste,” Ioreth said. “We’ve the reserves to spare men for this. But do remind your father that if I am running this city so often it is mine and not his.” She smiled with good humor.

Dirhael laughed, “Everyone knows that Minas Ithil is your realm, mother.”

Ioreth rose and crossed the room to hug her son, “And don’t forget it. Stay safe, that is all I ask.”

Dirhael smiled gently, “Always.”

Ioreth laughed slightly, “No more stealing Nazgul steeds.” Breaking the hug, she looked him over. It mattered not how many times she had bid him farewell to battle; the worry was ever present.

“Only if he’s truly vexing,” Dirhael returned in what had become a customary joke, before leaving to gather troops. 

 

Denethor, witnessing all of this had more and more questions. Most of which he was unsure how to phrase tactfully. Dirhael was obviously the family heir, and his father, the Lord of Minas Ithil was actually campaigning in Mordor itself. Said Lord, as yet unnamed, had met not one but two Balrogs--this, Denethor dearly hoped was a joke. Those fell beasts well little more than an echo of elder days carried forward in tales and songs. Last, but certainly not least, in the Fourth Age, Nazgul were something to joke about. There’s also the fact that by the look of the Heir the Lord is not of Numenorean blood. Denethor frowned in thought before venturing, “You campaign openly within Mordor itself?”

Ioreth nodded, answering, “Yes, my husband has a..unique insight into orcish strategy and politics. Normally his little sojourns don’t take much time or many numbers. But I suppose, in some ways at least, the Orcs have been getting craftier since the downfall of Sauron. Unfortunately, this means I will be unable to accompany you to the White City as I had originally intended.”

Denethor sneered, “Orcs have no politics.”

“Oh, you would be amazed. Certainly they’re barbaric and uncouth; but their politics are sophisticated enough that if one knows how, playing them off of each other is apparently a fun game,” Ioreth said, reaching for some of the fruit Morwen had brought. 

“So that is how the war is now fought?” Denethor questioned. “Manipulations and deceptions?”

“The war is over,” Ioreth said. “Has been for years. The Shadow no longer lingers over Mordor and the mountain is silent.”

That was...staggering. Denethor had seen the Shadow, ever growing. Mordor was a land always to be watched--a spawning ground for all manner of evil. Orodruin was ever rumbling and slowly spewing fume and fire. Many times he had held Boromir and thought sadly that his son would never know clear skies to the east. 

The idea that the threat was largely neutralized was a strangely liberating notion.

“How...” he was at a loss. “How did Gondor manage to prevail over such a foe?”

“The Free Peoples prevailed. Elves, Dwarves, Men, and even Hobbits allied to defeat Sauron,” Ioreth corrected. “I suppose I should add dragons to that list,” she added as an afterthought. “In the morning you should make haste to Minas Tirith, by way of Osgiliath. However, this is a strange time to you, and I would not send you alone.”

“I am quite sure I can find my way,” Denethor replied smoothly.

“I am sure you can; but the fewer questions asked before you have had opportunity to speak with the Steward, the better,” Ioreth said. “Had Talion not called for Dirhael’s aid specifically I would have sent him as he is a friend of the Steward.”

“Who is Steward?” Denethor questioned, “I can well guess it is not I.” Is it Boromir? How much time has indeed passed?

Ioreth paused, wondering what to say, “I feel that is best learned from he and not I.” She recalled well how the lad had always and ever looked for the barest approval from the man before her. “I shall instruct one whom I trust to accompany you on the morrow--and not to speak to you overly much. I would appreciate the same from you.”

Denethor frowned, he could understand the caution but did not appreciate the tone, “I am no fool.”

As she departed, Ioreth turned and said, “Oh, I do not think you such.”

**Author's Note:**

> I always love talking about this AU @BoromirDeservedBetter on tumblr


End file.
